


Camaraderie

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [28]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Gen, Nipawin (1991-1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1993: A muddy cruiser, and the quieter nature of kindness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camaraderie

"I fail to understand why he cannot simply _wash_ my car at the end of shift," Turnbull grumbled quietly, and in Turnbull-speak, that was practically insubordination. "It is not that difficult; pull the cruiser into the bay, turn on the hose, wash off the mud. Quite simple."

Mike nodded his agreement. He wasn't one to quash a little harmless insubordination. And Mitchell did leave 420 in a state of extremely muddy. Not abnormal in Nipawin, especially in the spring, but still. _Professional courtesy._

Sometimes, he was pretty sure that Mitch left a food wrapper on a seat or mud in the wheel wells, though, just because it drove Turnbull crazy. In that case it was well-played, because Mike was entertained by the exceptionally polite tirades that came of it.

Turnbull was busy toweling off his cruiser -- and it definitely was _his_ now, regardless of actual ownership -- and ranting away in clipped, precise tones, "A little soap, a little wax; it does not require a manual of instruction, nor does it require a great deal of physical effort. Nor is it backbreaking labor to sweep it out once a week, perhaps think to remove _fast food wrappers_..."

"The scourge of gas station food," Mike answered, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his civilian jacket.

Turnbull gave him a straight-mouthed look that made Mike have to fight down a grin. "Indeed. If only he knew just how long those... those _items_ sat in those warmers. I would not deign to call them food, however, as their resemblance to food is strictly surface, and calling them such is entirely too generous. Sir."

Mike nodded again. Nope. He wasn't going to argue. Especially not while he was craving one of those horrible, over-processed _items_ and would probably grab it on the way home.

"Even if he insists upon eating such things, there is absolutely no call the leave the dessicated remains in my cruiser." Turnbull went back to towel-drying 420; quick, efficient and thorough.

Mike's rook had been a little off lately. Well, not that Turnbull had actually been a rookie for over a year now, but Mike had long given up pretending that his rooks would ever stop being his rooks, and that included this one.

But he had been a little off. Mike tended to keep an eye on things like that; Turnbull had spent a good few months with an aura of preoccupation, though he was still fine on duty. Didn't smile much, and when he did, it was more forced than not. Ate up a lot of overtime, too, after spending the winter turning down the voluntary hours and being more bouncy than usual.

It seemed to be lifting now, though, and if Mitch bringing 420 in at the end of afternoon shift muddy was helping that process along, Mike was all for it. He wasn't about to pry into the Turnbull's personal life, since he'd never been offered an opening, and therefore he did the best he could to keep Turnbull's spirits up in his professional life.

Mike pushed off of the wall, holding out a hand. "Here, toss me a towel."

Turnbull eyed him for a moment in an expression that could only be called mirthful suspicion, and then acquiesced with equally mirthful resignation, picking up one of the folded towels and tossing it across the hood of the cruiser to him.

Mike caught it and started towel-drying the other side, answering the grin he got with one of his own.

The gas station food could wait.


End file.
